


knots

by akhikosanada



Series: initial spark [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Automail, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Sylvix Week (Fire Emblem), not a lot of worldbuilding. just Feels, sylvain has a mechanical arm and felix is his mechanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akhikosanada/pseuds/akhikosanada
Summary: "“What are you doing h--”Felix’s gaze, as Sylvain snaps his own back, morphs from annoyed into horrified as it travels down Sylvain’s automail, the wires Felix had so carefully arranged like muscle fibers around the skeleton of steel now drawing maps of cutoff roads and impasses as they hang to Sylvain’s side. Felix’s hair is knotted into a half-bun, bangs falling into his eyes when he looks up at Sylvain’s face, turning the angry downturn of his eyebrows into worry, if Sylvain lets his imagination run a little wilder. "Sylvain wrecks his mechanical arm. Felix picks up the pieces and fixes him. Written for Sylvix Week 2020 day 1 - Urban Fantasy AU.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: initial spark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934065
Comments: 18
Kudos: 107
Collections: Sylvix Squad Super Stories, Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	knots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Keypyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keypyon/gifts).



> This is from a collab AU with the AMAZING @Keypy0n where sylvain has an automail, felix is his mechanic, and they fight robots!! I made it a little cyberpunky because ive ALWAYS wanted to write a cyberpunk AU :3  
> A bigger, full fic is currently in the works, but have this ficlet for now!
> 
> Katha made some [WONDERFUL accompanying art for this AU!!](https://twitter.com/Keypy0n/status/1308044808443887622) Please check out her work, she's so talented <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy <3

Sylvain has always liked rain. 

He likes it especially like this: when it pours, when it sings alto staccatos against the pavement tar, when it drums up heat-hazes that tame the all-revealing neon lights, when it washes away all sweat and grime and blood off his body in volutes of dark burgundy like watered-down wine. 

He likes it especially like this: when it conceals all he is, as though a kid hiding under a curtain at a dinner party to flee fakely-playful punches from his older brother. 

His feet beat against the road with the regularity of a street signal, his skin turning from red to green to red as he walks along the 24-hour shops -- he doesn’t bother running; it’s too conspicuous, especially for someone like him, with a crumpled-up shirt and a bloody gash in his side and a mechanical arm almost torn to pretty, glittering metal shards. He just looks forward, doesn’t cross the gazes of anyone, fights the urge to look up at the robots he knows are hovering overhead, their path like a web amongst the tall buildings as they survey one and all. It’s only a matter of minutes until they realize they’re missing a couple of their peers, a matter of minutes until they find the remnants of their lifeless bodies in the dark of a back-alley. It’s only a matter of minutes until Sylvain slips out of sight, just another passerby in this goddess-forsaken city and not one of the most prominent members of the Rebellion.

He only hopes Felix will let him in.

He’s moved his shop near Bernadetta’s manufactory since the last government raid; Edelgard’s robots don’t often patrol Bernie’s street, which is a good perk to take advantage of when you’re part of an anti-government faction, Sylvain surmises. Her garage is closed, it seems, the iron curtain shut tight and bolted from the inside. Sylvain wonders if she’s spying on them still; he knows she’s always said she wanted nothing to do with any political faction, but loyalty runs deep, and Sylvain, like every good information broker, knows Edelgard keeps her loyalties as close as her enemies. 

At least, Sylvain can delude himself into thinking Bernadetta likes him enough not to tattle on him, though he doesn’t trust it. It’s always been hard for him, to trust anyone. There’s no reason he’s going to start now. 

He lets his knuckles rasp against the heavy door of Felix’s atelier, just this side of sluggish. The clock on the shop panel next door shines pretty, reversed numbers onto the walls across the empty street, blurred by the raindrops curling into Sylvain’s eyelashes; it’s late, late enough that Felix may have gone to sleep early, for once--

“What are you doing h--”

Felix’s gaze, as Sylvain snaps his own back, morphs from annoyed into horrified as it travels down Sylvain’s automail, the wires Felix had so carefully arranged like muscle fibers around the skeleton of steel now drawing maps of cutoff roads and impasses as they hang to Sylvain’s side. Felix’s hair is knotted into a half-bun, bangs falling into his eyes when he looks up at Sylvain’s face, turning the angry downturn of his eyebrows into worry, if Sylvain lets his imagination run a little wilder. Felix doesn’t even bother telling him to follow him; he just steps away and into the ventilated cool of the room, his steps urgent, his gestures frantic, gathering screws and tools and all manner of metal until Sylvain comes in and closes the door behind them.

He doesn’t miss the way Felix immediately turns on the alarm system. The door locks by itself behind Sylvain’s back. Safe.

“Of course you had to find yet another way to fuck up my hard work.” Felix’s words bite into his flesh, though less harmful than the actual bites Sylvain’s got from one of the cyborgs he’d try to fight off earlier. 

“Any excuse is good to come and see you,” Sylvain says, tone light, lighter than the heavy, stormy air outside, that unforgiving summer weather that matches Felix so well. The sentence slips out easily; it’s not a lie -- it’s the truest thing Sylvain’s said lately -- but Felix doesn’t know that, doesn’t see the way Sylvain looks at him with how focused he is on preparing his tools. 

“And today’s excuse evidently is an attempt on your life, I presume.”

Sylvain shrugs. “I wouldn’t have died.”

“You better not.”

There’s the edge of something in Felix’s voice, a wavering like the echo of a raindrop at the puddle’s surface -- but before Sylvain has the time to pry, to dig his ugly hands into Felix’s guts and peek through the mess of the knots in his stomach, Felix kicks a chair next to his worktable, turns it around with a nudge of his foot. A silent invitation.

Sylvain takes it the way he takes every invitation from Felix Fraldarius: like a godsend. 

He sits in the chair, quiet and subdued, catches with his good arm the towel Felix throws to his face to shake the rain off his hair. Thunder rolls outside like rustling autumn leaves, crackling under the weight of the season, distant enough to be soothing. Felix’s fingers glide over his mechanical arm in almost gentle strokes, ever so caring with his own works of art, the leather of his fingerless gloves catching on the sharpest edges. Sylvain had never been touched this softly before Felix. He regrets this arm doesn’t have nerve endings for him to feel the aftershocks of Felix’s attention. 

The dim lights of Felix’s atelier emphasize the dark lilac hue that circles his undereyes, do nothing to hide the strain of fatigue sinking his gaze in as his irises flit from one bolt to the next; that exhausted shade echoes bisected through the shuttered windows to the sounds of sirens, to the rush of cop cars and ambulances in nearby streets, and Sylvain tenses when he thinks they may be coming for him. Felix’s fingers close around the steel of his wrist, hold him in place as he grabs his laser welding rig, blood red mirrored scarlet gold in the flicker of his eyes before he puts on his goggles and bends down to his task.

It’s sloppy work, Sylvain notices, sloppier than what Felix is used to -- Sylvain blames it on startime, their twinkle faded in the light pollution when he gazes at the glass roof above them. Several times, Sylvain has to silently guide Felix’s hand to the right place, Felix’s tools to the right screws with a careless, calculated curl of mechanical fingers. _Shouldn’t this wire go here instead?_ he asks once; _I’m pretty sure I saw this piece fall from here_ , he says twice. At his third _isn’t this bolt going in this hole_ , Felix snaps, tells him to shut up and let him work, _it’s not_ your _job, Sylvain_ , spat out with the same tone his father used when Sylvain did anything out of place for his own rank. It feels like a slap to the face; it must show like it, too, because Felix immediately tells him--

“I’m sorry.” There’s the edge of truth plucked out of his vocal chords in an electric bassline, thrumming from under Felix’s fingers in the sudden softness they smooth Sylvain’s soul with when they catch on Sylvain’s other hand. The good one. “I’ve been… tired.”

Felix doesn’t need an answer, Sylvain decides. He doesn’t need forgiveness, nor does he need pity. So Sylvain offers him compassion instead: in the silent, watchful eye he lets train over Felix’s handiwork; in the way he hands Felix the tools he needs from his workbench without Felix even asking for them; in the caress of careful fingertips as Sylvain tucks a lock of loose hair behind Felix’s ear before it gets into his face.

As always, Felix works on his shoulder last. It’s only half-dislocated, this time, the result of a too-strong punch in the metal chest of the government robots. The thunder has come closer, Sylvain notices when Felix quietly reaches for the edge of Sylvain’s shirt, gaze bashful when it silently asks for permission. Perhaps it’s merely the storm of his heartbeat. 

Sylvain has often wondered how it would feel, to have Felix undress him in different circumstances than these. He imagines it’d feel feverishly frantic, a sudden and hasty thing, negligent in the urge to get ever closer; Sylvain would probably take his time, though, would unravel every seam of Felix’s being as he does his clothes, would kiss every inch of newly-exposed skin as though tasting for the first time after an eternity starved. Perhaps Felix would tear away his shirt altogether, would claw at the back until it dissolves into rags and Sylvain evanesces into sighs. He pictures himself keeping his eyes open, witnessing every stage of griefful lust onto Felix’s features before kissing away all of them, blurring them into a single emotion with the brush of his lips against every part of Felix’s self. 

When Felix starts to lift Sylvain’s shirt, Sylvain’s eyelashes flutter close. 

Felix’s hands are careful, caring, as they brush against Sylvain’s sides, skim around the superficial cut along his ribs that’s half-closed already thanks to his biochip, thumb over the curve of his chest and the muscle there. Sylvain can hear Felix inhale, sharp and swift; perhaps it’s the rush of wind underneath car wheels down the street, quaking over his heart when Felix’s hand settles there as the other pulls the shirt over Sylvain’s head and through his good arm. Felix’s fingers rest there when he makes the rest of the shirt go over Sylvain’s automail, the white of the fabric stained black with oil as it flumes down the steel and copper. Sylvain sees the scars, curling away from the metal embedded into his shoulder in dark suns, sees too the way Felix traces them with his gaze, melted copper, as though he could cast it into the cracks of Sylvain’s body, of Sylvain’s soul. 

His arm hangs, limp, to the side, half-detached from the rest of his corpse. That part always hurts a little, though not worse than the worst things Miklan used to do to him. 

“I’m going to start.” Sylvain reads Felix’s whisper on his lips.

“Okay.”

It hurts worse than usual: maybe it’s the fatigue, or maybe Felix wants to punish him for keeping him up late somehow. Felix pushes harder on his automail, misses the slot a couple times, each movement carving dark circles deeper underneath his gaze and cutting longer lines over his forehead. Third time’s the charm -- Felix finally manages to push his arm in just as Sylvain swears from a jolt of pain--

Felix tumbles forward with how hard he’s worked it in right into Sylvain’s chest, his hand catching his weight onto Sylvain’s heart. 

Felix, for all his usual quickness, is much less alert when he’s exhausted, and before he can spring away Sylvain reaches for his hand with his own and keeps it there, tugs him forward until his forehead falls over the coolness of the metal in Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain feels him relax when Sylvain runs his thumb over his knuckles, soothes tremors into him with simple sentences -- _thank you_ , Sylvain murmurs into the mess of his hair, _you did good_ , his lips brushing Felix’s crown in concealed indulgence. The scent of cigarette smoke and thundered tar and lavender fills Sylvain’s lungs like pure oxygen, swallowed up into him by a hungry, restrained half-kiss. Felix snorts against the crook of Sylvain’s neck, breath tumbling onto Sylvain’s skin and down his spine. He doesn’t move. It’s only when Sylvain pulls back that he sees the sweep of Felix’s eyelashes drawing shadows upon his cheekbones where they’re tangled close. 

“Let’s get you to bed?”

Felix hums. It’s as much agreement as Sylvain needs.

Sylvain expects Felix to fight and slip away when Sylvain tries to carry him in his arms, but Felix doesn’t move; his breathing evens out when Sylvain swings his newly-repaired arm under Felix’s legs, when Sylvain settles Felix’s head in the bed of his throat, when Sylvain pushes open the door to Felix’s bedroom with a slight kick of his foot. Felix breathes deep, in and out, the gentlest ebb and flow, as Sylvain settles him onto the mattress, too exhausted to be embarrassed or to push Sylvain away, Sylvain surmises. Felix has never wanted him here, has never wanted anyone here, not when he’s at his most vulnerable, complacent and defenseless with sleep. Sylvain himself has only seen Felix like this once, head pillowed into his arms crossed over the counter of Sylvain’s bar, red neon lights turned passion-purple in the shade of Felix’s dark hair as it lay undone, dyeing Sylvain’s fingers in guilt as he ran them through and along the curve of Felix’s jaw. They’d been alone, then, drinks empty and ice melting, and when Felix had chirped awake Sylvain had almost kissed him. 

Sylvain undoes the bun of Felix’s hair, now as well, lets his hair flow undone over his shoulders in the dark of the room, red light shining through the shutters and along Felix’s pale skin in garnets, in petals, in blood. 

Sylvain steps away.

“Wait.”

Felix’s fingers close. Around the skin of his wrist. The rain beats onto the pavement to the drumming of his blood, to the battering of his heart. 

“Stay?”

Felix’s eyes are a slither of amber through tired, half-shut charcoal, the shade of surrender. 

When Sylvain lies down next to him, back turned away, Felix’s arms reach around, hands settling against his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Please tell me if you'd like to see more of this AU >:3c
> 
> Title is from Knots by Speak Low If You Speak Love


End file.
